MIST

It’s late in the afternoon

And the night is seeping in.

Dark clouds have hovered

Around the mountain gourd.

Like it was deliberately washed

By a black ink, blindly.

Against the sky so blue

And the bright bayou.

The landslide at the center

Isn’t that dangerous anymore.

A clamp of trees on the right,

Detailed by white paint,

Showing its branches and trunks.

I could say I might have seen a skunk.

At the left is a bush of trees

Mist flew up like it is alive and free.

Posted in: Literature,Poem,Poetry